Off to experience the great outdoors. Be back Sunday. Please don’t rob my house.
For whatever reason I got a wild hair up my ass and started a new blog specifically for recaps. www.doyouwatch.wordpress.com
I know that the blog name might sound a little pervy, but at the time I was all, “cooool! Do you watch, as in Do you watch The Secret Life of the American Teenager?! That shit will totally rot your pituitary!” I had failed to connect the question with the creepy peeper often found outside bedroom windows. My apologies. But I’m not changing it.
Yesterday was my best friend’s birthday and I am THA-RILLED that she is now “27.” Like me. Because her husband had to work I invited her over for a fabulous meal of spaghetti, tough corn on the cob, and still partially frozen ciabatta bread topped off by her own individual serving of ice cream. In lieu of presents I made a donation to my suffering bank account, but let’s not talk about that. Yeah, I know. You wanna be my best friend, too.
Amidst all the chaos at the kitchen table (we have 7 kids between us) I hollered out, “Tell me your favorite thing about your mom.” My kids were silent, because they don’t like me, but Glenda’s kicked in quite vigorously! “She makes good food that I don’t like!” said Cliff. “I’m sorry, but it’s true,” he apologized through his cheesy 8 year old grin. I love that kid. I think Chanel #4 said something adorable like, “she loves me” or “I like when she gives me kisses” or “she makes me laugh,” but to be honest I was too struck by Cliff’s response to pay much attention. Marion Ross loves her because of her cooking as well, and so does her oldest Ann Margaret. And those are excellent responses all, because Glenda is an excellent cook. In the words of some movie or television show that I saw some time, “She makes a sandwich an event.” But I realized this morning that I didn’t get a chance to add what I loved about their mother because did I mention we were eating dinner with 6/7ths of our children?
Glenda,
You’re my best friend and have been for Christ… nearly 24 years. I’ve known you longer than I haven’t.
*I love how your eyes crinkle around the edges and dance when you laugh.
*I love your commitment to your family and I love that you were wise enough to let go of those who weren’t good for you.
*I love that you would have let me take your little brother to prom when I had no one else. I don’t love that it was my cousin by marriage whom I ended up taking, but I love that we laugh now over that stupid night with the Puffalump dress, someone else trying to “seduce” my date, and the quote, “Stand back! I can help! I’m going to study to be a doctor!”
*I love how you know when to say “who” or “whom” (I don’t), but that you can’t spell for shit. That’s an awesome juxtaposition right there.
*I love your sense of humor – how it’s wicked and dirty and twisted and has gotten us both through situations we’d rather not have found ourselves in.
*I love how you love my oldest girl in the exact same way I love your oldest.
*I love how you understand me and always have my back and tell me I’m right even when we both know I’m wrong. Sometimes a girl needs that.
*I love how I can bitch and moan about my husband and you about yours but that we never have to clarify how much and how deeply we are in love with them despite their general jackassery.
*I love how you come to my house loaded down with ingredients and make me soups and chilies and chicken a la king in the winter and then let me keep the leftovers. I think it’s because you feel sorry for my family being forced to eat my cooking, but that’s okay. I feel sorry for them, too.
*I love your halfassed devotion to your “vegetable garden” and how you view it as a “fuck you” to all those proper flower gardens your neighbors plant so self-righteously.
*I love that when D died you didn’t smother me with concern. Knowing that you knew I would eventually be okay gave me permission to be okay.
*I love that all we have to say when discussing someone new or old is “we likes/hates them” and that we’re both on board with the mutual affection/contempt.
*I love that when the rest of us were squeeing over Duran Duran you were all about the Sinatra and the Baryshnikov and that sexy doctor who called his nurses “sweet thing.” Oh, and Armand Assante. Remember the way he walked through his Quban night club in the opening scene of that movie and we were all “I think I just had an orgasm”?
But most of all I love your soul – it’s wise and loving and just about the coolest one out there. Every time you’ve been knocked down you’ve come back fighting. Every time you’ve been blessed you’ve accepted it with grace and humility. Every time you’ve been disappointed by the ones you love the most you’ve opened your heart more to them and accepted them back into your arms with an extra strong hug.
I’m glad I’m one of those people you love.
Today I took my daughters and two of their friends to the local amusement park. Yeah, I spent about 5 hours there being the world’s most AWESOME mom. It’s kind of nice now that the older two are well, older and less inclined to follow strangers with candy. I can send them off to ride the Hurl ‘n’ Hurl and Deathdrop!! with nary a worry and Miss Thang and I get a little one v. one time in the more 4 year old appropriate land.
As it turned out after a scheduled meet up, Oldest decided she wanted to hang out with me and Miss Thang until the next pre-arranged meet up. It worked out well and when it came time for me to “meet up” with the wayward 3-some she took Miss Thang to a show so they didn’t have to “die in the wicked hot sun” while waiting at least a half an hour for the others to finally remember that we were supposed to meet. Excellent foresight on her part I must say. ANYWAY….
The agreed upon meeting spot was a themed miniature water oasis. It’s cool and fun, but from a parental stand point has awful logistics. The entrance is on one side and the exit is waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay the frack over there, so if you’re paranoid like I am you’re killing yourself chasing them to the entrance and then meeting them at the exit before they squirt out into the crowd and are lost forever (or those heart stopping 30 seconds). Rinse and repeat ad nauseum.
While I was waiting I stood next to a woman and her double-wide stroller. She was watching her three daughters play in the water area – scowling at them. The oldest looked to be 4 and the youngest about 2 with a middle one in between. “Don’t you lose her like you did last time,” she hollered at the 4 year old. “You’d better bring her right back here when you get out of there.” I was stunned. Really? Your 4 year old is responsible for your 2 year old in a crowded amusement park? Seriously? Because… you’re to lazy to walk to the exit? She continued to yell at them as they tried to have fun and she got more and more irritated when they didn’t respond. Their lack of response was mostly because it’s impossible to hear anything but splashing water and screaming kids within the oasis, but I suspect it might have been a little bit of would you just shut your hole?!
Eventually the dad stomped up to the mother dragging yet another child with him. She might have been 6. The dad was furious furious that she hadn’t been allowed to ride whatever ride they’d stood in line to ride. He cussed, he gesticulated, he shot glares at bystanders. His daughter did the same thing, mimicking him expertly. (As an aside, it KILLS me when parents get upset when their children can’t ride certain rides due to SAFETY guidelines. Also? There are height guidelines posted ON EVERY RIDE IN THE PARK before you even get in line. What the hell?!)
“Get the rest of ‘em,” the dad said and reached out to slap the sun visor back on their stroller. “I’m fucking done with this fucking place.” He put his hands on his hips and walked around fucking this and son of a bitching that. The three little girls scurried out of the oasis when he bellowed at them to “get your [sic] asses over here.” Then these two parental paragons just bitched at their kids – they weren’t fast enough in putting on their flip flops, they weren’t getting in the stroller fast enough, they were walking the wrong way, they were walking in the way, and by God don’t make me spank you!
Listen, we’ve all had those moments. I don’t know of a single parent who hasn’t just flipped out over the weirdest of things. I get that. I live that. But this was different. Not only was it lazy parenting (Sissy! Watch your sister so I don’t have to! -and- It says you’re too short to ride this ride. Naah… the line’s 40 minutes long. You’ve got plenty of time to grow!), just the way these girls behaved around their parents just shouted well… nothing good. There was the angry 6 year old (see Daddy? I’m mad too! Just like you!!), the over-responsible 4 year old taking care/protecting of her sisters because her parents wouldn’t, the quiet 3 year old who disappeared. I mean, she was still there. I could see her, but she did absolutely nothing to draw attention to herself, and not in the smug way my kid would. She just… vanished. And then the baby who, well, she was 2 and we all know 2 year olds are all kinds of weird anyway.
How horrible was it to be those girls in that moment? To see everyone else having fun, to see parents laughing with their kids, and to have to leave your oasis so you could be yelled at because your sister was too short to ride a roller coaster? If that’s how their parents treat them in public, what the hell goes on when they’re home?
So some of you may know that my brother is something of an online celebrity. He and his missus have this podcast and it’s pretty popular amongst the gamers. I wasn’t aware of how popular really, until today when it worked to my advantage.
So I’m at the game resale shop today buying Jack a copy of Halo Wars because it’s the only thing he wanted for Father’s Day except for Graeters’ Elena’s blueberry pie ice cream. I commenced to chatting with the manchild behind the desk about the game and how we’re big gamers (and by “we,” I mean everyone BUT me) in my family and blah blah blah, and he says, “I listen to Cag Foreplay all the time,” and I’m all, “That’s my brother.”
I’m pretty sure he might have 
jizzed in his pants. He had to take a few “I am NOT going to freak out” breaths, but then he totally did. He freaked out. “I LOVE that show! THAT’S your brother?! Oh my GOD! SERIOUSLY? That. Is. your.brother?!!” I nodded. I also took a few steps back. “No… seriously,” he said. “I listen to him all the time! He’s awesome.”
“Awesome enough to hook his sister up a little discount?” I asked.
Turns out he is exactly that awesome. Thanks Shipwreck.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll have something of interest to someone?
I kind of hate opening WordPress. Not because it’s not a terrific blogging thingy, because it is. I ♥ WordPress. What I hate about going to my sign in page is that there are other blogs showcased – which, I don’t actually hate that part either because I think it’s an awesome way to direct traffic. But for whatever reason, WordPress has picked up on my neurosis and almost always features a blog that’s talking about proof of a new ice age, or proof that the sun’s gonna explode tomorrow, or proof that I, Cackin’ Rose, am going to expire in some horrendous way along with quadrillions of my closest friends.
Not cool, WordPress.
Usually when I click on the offered blog (because how can I NOT???) this man is disproving sloppy science and telling me to calm the f down and go about the business of just living my life. Sometimes he confirms that yes, we are expecting there to be a drop of temperatures. Soon. And not just like… 5 degrees, but more like you’d better re-watch The Day After the Day After Tomorrow (or whatever that Jake Gyllenhall/Dennis Quaid movie is) so you can pick up some pointers on how to survive. How do you feel about Mexico now, bitches? Is it so wrong to want to keep my head so safely buried in the sand?
Yet, other times my attention is pulled away from imminent doom (where imminent =’s the sun will burn out in 5 bramillion years or and NOT the extended 5.5 brajillion years that we were expecting. The End is Nigh y’all. In 5 bramillion years.) by the much more pleasant and palatable PEOPLE blog. I would MUCH rather worry about Kristin Stewart’s newest do (People wants to know if I love it or hate it. I totally love it. Nobody rocks the Joan Jett like Kristin. Except Joan Jett.) and David Beckham’s latest Armani panty ad where I can read other’s inspired comments (Wow! He’s hot! -says Jessie. What’s going on with his hair? Lola wants to know).
Does that make me shallow, the fact that I’d rather focus on David Beckham’s crotch than this is the first time we’ve gone this long without a solar flare since 1918?
For reference, in case you’re wondering….
Kristin’s new do (or don’t?):
David’s newest panty ad (full sized. You’re welcome.):
Dearest Jack,
Some things:
1) I very rarely nap. With Olivia it simply isn’t a possibility. Unsupervised, she gets creative. Plus, it throws my internal clock off even worse than it is and I wind up staying up even later. If I’m felled by the mighty migraine (I get two or three a year), I nap. If I’m sick with strep or flu, I’ll nap. But mid-afternoon siestas aren’t my typical indulgences. So people who know me should know that if I’m napping and the above criteria aren’t the culprits then I’m PRETTY FUCKING TIRED and probably need the rest. I’m not sleeping to make your life more miserable, I’m sleeping so that I don’t start petty fights, or crash the van, or put rat poison in your coffee by mistake. Silly stuff like that. Although? If you insist upon barging into our room with the sweeper just because you think I’m being lazy and then throw some ‘tude at me? I might be tempted not to nap at all and let you deal with the consequences – I hear law suits are fun, especially when pedestrians are involved.
2) I realize that some people prefer living in a very orderly environment. I realize that you are one of those people, although before we were married and well into our marriage you were NOT. Because of this I really do strive to keep our home tidy. Sometimes though, I DON’T FEEL LIKE DOING ONE MORE THING THAT IS GOING TO GET IMMEDIATELY UNDONE. Sometimes I simply want to BE and not have to worry about your delicate sensibilities and I’d like to do it without being judged, thankyouverymuch. Surely experience has taught you that eventually our home will be cleaned, the laundry will be finished, and the cat box will be emptied. Yes, by all means offer to help, but STOP trying to MAKE A POINT by going all martyr on my ass.
3) With you being gone on a business trip I was actually starting to think about all the kinky stuff I’d like to do to you when you returned. See points 1 and 2 to understand why NONE of that is going to happen.
Love,
Rosie
There has been a shift inthe neighborhood dynamics over the past six or so years. It used to be that my friend Tawna and I ruled the roost. We were the cool moms with the cool crafts and the cool field trips to the cool locations. Okay, mostly it was Tawna, but like any respectable toady, I stood by her side and soaked in the glory. Nothing happened that one or the other of us didn’t know about and we liked it that way. Then Tawna’s husband up and took a huge pay increase and moved the family a few hours north and I was left to my own devices.
Turned out that I wasn’t so dynamic. Like any respectable toady, my light faded when the true power was removed. That was fine. I adjusted back to being who I was B.T. (before Tawna), retreated into my shell, and gradually stopped attending things like Pampered Chef parties, Silpada parties, girls’ nights out, scrapbooking parties, and MOPs events. I still waved to the other mothers as our minivans zipped past each other, but I noticed more and more that their vans were filled with their friends and their children’s friends, while my van remained a Fortress of Solitude. Me and my shadow.
ANYWAY. So. I’ve noticed since Hurricane Ike rolled through here that my neighbor across the street (Carolina) had more or less stopped communicating with me. I didn’t think much of it until this past winter when I learned through the grapevine that they were having a neighborhood open house. An open house we hadn’t been invited to. I stood in my bedroom window watching as neighbor after neighbor filed past their hurricane lamps, stomped the snow off their boots and disappeared inside Carolina’s house.
“I don’t even care,” I told Jack. “It’s probably lame.”
He put his hands on my shoulders and kissed the top of my head. “You hate parties,” he reminded me.
“I don’t even care,” I said again.
Things evened out. I got over the snub, I continued to wave as I drove past them, but I noticed that really Carolina and her husband Brion only waved back to Jack. “Did you see that?” I demanded. “They totally ignored me and focused on being friendly to YOU,” I seethed. He nodded. “It appears they like me better. Which is understandable as I am infinitely more likeable than you,” he said matter-of-factly. I couldn’t argue with that. Jack is more outgoing than I am, funnier, in touch with the human conscious stuff, you know… the better person. “Yeah,” I agreed. “But I’m right here! They had to look through me to see you!”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have called their son gay,” he mused.
I scowled at him. I had no response to that. Except, “Yes, well, that might have crossed a line, but in my defence he was wearing the pink Power Ranger costume. In the front yard. And I was feeling fiesty. And I was in my house. And you laughed when I said it and you agreed. And the only other person I ever said it to was Tawna and she’d never repeat that. So it must have been you! You sold me out! You couldn’t handle my awesomeness and you told Carolina that I said her son looked gay** in his pink Power Ranger costume!!!”
Jack pointed to me. “You’re mean and that’s why people don’t like you. Using gay as a derogatory adjective is wrong.”
“What if I’d meant ‘cheery,’ or ‘bright and pleasant,’ huh? Did you think of that before you sold me out?”
He hugged me. He gets by with a lot when he hugs me. “I didn’t sell you out. Let it go. Not everyone has to like you.”
I sulked, but the incident passed and things seemed to be getting better. I made a concerted effort to engage Carolina in conversation, to talk about how cute and smart her kids were. I inquired as to the health of her aging parents. I was pleasant and nonderogatory, dammit. I thought things were looking up. Her son showed up at my door one day after school and informed me that his mother said I was to drive him to swim practice. Only friends did that, right?
And then… and then… last Friday happened. Last Friday I was awakened from my slumber at the rude hour of 7:50 a.m. by the sound of several car doors slamming. I got out of bed, scratched my bottom and wandered to the window to see what the haps were. Turns out? Carolina and two other moms (one who also lives diagonally to me and the other who lives in Tawna’s house) had organized a garage sale. WHAT THE HELL?! I called Jack.
“You are NOT going to believe this!” I ranted. “They organized a neighborhood garage sale!”
“See if someone’s selling a hedge trimmer. Our’s broke,” he said.
“I WILL NOT!”
“Easy there, Rosie,” he soothed. “What’s the problem?”
“No one invited me to put my stuff out,” I said.
“You loathe garage sales,” he reminded me. “Everytime someone mentions a garage sale, you’re all, ‘I’d rather lick toilets than have a garage sale. People who waste time hosting garage sales are dumb.’”
“My voice is not that high,” I grumbled. “And that’s not the point. And I never said dumb. It’s just polite to invite your across the street neighbor if you’re having a neighborhood garage sale or a party.”
He tried to comfort me, tried to tell me that maybe it was just the three of them who’d gone together, but I knew he was totally bat-shit wrong because sitting there, manning the money box was Holleen and she lives two streets over!!!! Then he got bored with my histrionics and hung up on me. I fumed a few more minutes and called my dad and my BFFs Hollie and Glenda. Hollie and Glenda assured me I was still the bee’s knees. My dad said, “Obviously your neighbors hate you.” Then he started talking about Vegas.
I’ve almost worked through the hurt, but it is kind of a testament that if you insist upon being left alone – make sure it’s what you really want because eventually people will believe you.
**Yes, I know. I’m rude and horrible and offensive.
So my kid and I were hanging out listening to music on you*tube and she was all, “I LOVE this song,” in the way that I’d be all, “I LOVE this song” if C&C Music Factory came on. The song in question was bouncy and lots of fun, but didn’t make much sense. She’s looking for Amy – everyone’s looking for Amy. They all want to find Amy. I mosied on over to check out the lyrics because what I was hearing wasn’t matching up to what was being said.
Nice one, Britney. FUCK me. Ha! You got me! Ha! And my 10 year old daughter, too. That is awesome and incredibly appropriate! We’re gonna hop right on i*tunes and download your entire collection. Except -wait… we’re NOT.
I could deal with the crazy and the naughty school-girl thing, but getting my 10 year old to inadvertently spell “F.U.C.K” isn’t slipping under my radar.
Seriously. What the if you seek Amy?!
